Falling Rayne: A Mary Sue Parody
by Velkyn
Summary: PARODY. Rayne Anderson is a tragic young woman with an even more tragic past. Will she find her parents' murderer and bring him to justice? Does the man in the black fedora truly love her, or is it all just a cruel lie? Violence, innuendo. [JigenxOC]
1. Autumn Rayne

-This is a work of fiction based on characters created by Monkey Punch (Kazuhiko Kato). It is an angst/drama **PARODY**, with a twist of lemon. Rated T for language, violence, and sexual situations. Jigen is © Monkey Punch, and is used without permission. The song 'I'm Not That Girl' is © Stephen Schwartz, and is used without permission. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

-This story was inspired by the song 'Hello Nurse' (from the cartoon Animaniacs). The main character, Rayne Anderson, scores a whopping 185 on the Mary-Sue Litmus Test. Ph34r my l33t Mary-Sue ski77z. If this story doesn't make you want to rip out your brain and wash it with industrial-strength cleaning solvent, then please let me know, and I'll do my best to make it even more painful to read.-

-Once again, this is a _parody_. Please bear this in mind before flaming me, 'k?-

* * *

Her name is Rayne Anderson.

She is sitting in a piano bar, drinking a New York Sunset, a drink she invented when she started working at The Big Easy. She had to teach the bartender how to make it, and he never gets it quite right.

At eighteen, Rayne is the youngest employee of the club. She plays piano under the name of Autumn Skye. No one knows her real name; not even the owner. She was too careful for that. The passport and driver's license in her purse are her own work. They've been looked at by banks, airport staff, the cops, and even gangsters. So far, no one's been able to tell that they're forgeries.

Her license says she's twenty-two, but that's the only thing she lied about. Her hair really is black, with a natural streak of white at the temple. Her eyes really are emerald green, although they change colour with her mood. And she really is five foot five. Technically, she is two inches too short to be a model, but the Ford agency won't stop calling. Her looks are a curse: Rayne feels that no one takes her seriously because of her beauty.

Her distinguishing marks are not common knowledge, but under her long green dress, on her left shoulder blade, is a tattoo of a single, perfect rosebud. It matches the one worn by her first love ... but she refuses to think of him. Not now. Not at work, where people might see her tears.

Rayne is taking a break. The grand piano is silent; instead, canned Big Band music filters in from hidden speakers, filling the cozy bar with the soulful sounds of Michael Bublé. Rayne closes her eyes briefly, remembering. She sang with him once, when he came into the bar, their voices blending perfectly as they performed together. She declined his offer to take her on tour with him, though. She has unfinished business in Chicago.

She is waiting for _him _to appear. Rayne knows that eventually, everyone comes into The Big Easy. It is Chicago's hottest lounge. The rich and famous come here for one reason: the music. Rayne is the best pianist in the state of Illinois; possibly the best in the country, and definitely the best in the city. Her singing voice is legendary, and she has a reputation for being professional, though slightly aloof, as if some tragedy lingered in her past: a tragedy that keeps her from getting too close.

Rayne runs the tip of one finger around the rim of her glass as her eyes search the room. Two Asian men sit down beside her at the bar. One of them speaks to the other in Japanese. It's an obscure dialect, but Rayne has no trouble understanding them. The short one says something about her tits. The fat one says that she has an ass to die for. They leer at her until she turns to them.

"Fuck off, you disgusting perverts," she says. Her Japanese is flawless. The men stare at her, fumble to pick up their drinks, and move off towards the back of the club. Rayne snorts softly. She may be young, but she's no fool. James, the bartender, finds a free moment and comes over to her.

"Hey, Autumn." James is good-looking in a GQ sort of way. He's been hitting on her regularly for the last six months, but she constantly rebuffs him. Rayne prefers her men a little darker, and a lot older. She nods slightly in acknowledgement.

"James." It's obvious, even when she speaks, that Rayne has the voice of an angel. She rarely laughs, but when she does, it is musical, lilting, sensual, and innocent, all at once. "Time to get back to it, huh?" She finishes her drink and sets the glass on the bar.

James nods at her. "Good luck."

Rayne smiles drily. "Luck has nothing to do with it."

Sitting down at the piano, she waits for the canned music to end. When it finally does, Rayne plays the opening notes of a popular Broadway tune. Her beautiful voice fills the room as she sings:

"Hands touch, eyes meet  
Sudden silence, sudden heat  
Hearts leap in a giddy whirl  
He could be that boy  
But I'm not that girl."

Rayne looks around the room covertly. She knows it will be tonight. She can feel it in her heart; in her bones. Tonight, she will see him at last; and he will come to _her_.

"Don't dream too far  
Don't lose sight of who you are  
Don't remember that rush of joy  
He could be that boy  
I'm not that girl."

The door opens, and in walks a man with a lean and hungry look. He is slender in the extreme, with a rough beard, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His black fedora is pulled low over his eyes, and his rich Italian suit fits his body as though he were born in it.

Rayne adjusts the pace of her playing, segueing into the bridge:

"Ev'ry so often we long to steal  
To the land of what-might-have-been  
But that doesn't soften the ache we feel  
When reality sets back in."

The man in the black fedora is packing heat; Rayne can tell by the way he walks, the way he moves. He glances around the room, lingering on every dark spot and corner. He lifts the brim of his hat and looks straight at Rayne. She meets his gaze unflinchingly and continues the song.

"Blithe smile, lithe limb  
She who's winsome, she wins him  
Gold hair with a gentle curl  
That's the girl he chose  
And Heaven knows  
I'm not that girl."

The man studies her for a long moment, taking in her dark hair, her perfect curves, the glittering green cocktail dress she wears with such grace. He plucks the smouldering cigarette from his lips and crushes it in a nearby ashtray without taking his eyes off her. Rayne feels the electricity, the passion, the desire in his gaze. She sings the last verse directly to him.

"Don't wish, don't start  
Wishing only wounds the heart  
I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl  
There's a girl I know  
He loves her so  
I'm not that girl."

Rayne finishes her song, bringing it to a mournful close. For the space of three heartbeats, she watches the man in the black fedora. Finally, he turns away and heads for the door. Rayne holds her breath, waiting. But he does not leave. Instead, he beckons to someone on the other side.

The door to the club opens a little wider and suddenly, Rayne's patience pays off. The bearded man ushers his companion into the club, to a booth in a secluded corner. The air, hazy with cigarette smoke and tinted red by the dim lighting, is just thick enough to conceal most of his features, but Rayne knows who it is. There is no question.

An hour later, Rayne finishes her set. She sits at the bar and orders a New York Sunset. It is mixed badly, as always, but she is too preoccupied to notice. She idly glances around the room, careful not to appear as though she is actually looking at the table in the corner, a table at which two men sit: the bearded man with the black fedora, and Antonio Scarpetti...

...her parents' murderer.


	2. Blood Rayne

-This is a work of fiction based on characters created by Monkey Punch (Kazuhiko Kato). It is an angst/drama **PARODY**, with a twist of lemon. Rated T for language, violence, and sexual situations. Jigen is © Monkey Punch, and is used without permission. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

-This story was inspired by the song 'Hello Nurse' (from the cartoon Animaniacs). I have little patience for Mary-Sue characters, and Rayne Anderson (this story's main character) is a Mary-Sue in every sense of the term. If you hate this story... if you hate Rayne Anderson and want to see her eaten by rabid hedgehogs... if you post a review telling me that my main character is a mind-crushing example of a Mary-Sue... then I've been successful.-

-Once again, this is a **PARODY**. Please bear this in mind before flaming me, 'k?-

* * *

_A shot in the dark._

_"Momma?"_

_There is blood everywhere. Her mother is gasping, each breath wet and bubbling. The gaping hole in her stomach oozes a dark red substance, like strawberry jam on a morning slice of toast. Her blue dress has turned purple. Rayne hugs her stuffed rabbit tightly as she cowers in her Secret Place._

_There is a crashing noise from the kitchen, and she sees her father's smartly-shined shoes as he stumbles into the living room. He screams, a single word:_

_"No!"_

_He rushes to his wife's side, holding her in his arms as she tries to speak his name. She coughs. A stream of blood flies from her mouth, staining his cheek with its crimson kiss. The light in her eyes goes out forever._

_Rayne sees her father rise from the floor, covered in her mother's blood. His white dress shirt is now scarlet. He turns to the door. A pair of legs appears in the doorway, and the gun roars again. Her father falls in front of the green Chippendale sofa, inches away from Rayne's face. She knows it is her father, because of his shoes._

_Rayne bites down on her stuffed rabbit to keep herself from screaming. Her eyes sting with tears, but she knows, even at the tender age of eight, that this is something she must watch. Something she must remember._

_Something she must avenge._


	3. Rayne Dance

-This is a work of fiction based on characters created by Monkey Punch (Kazuhiko Kato). It is an angst/drama **PARODY**, with a twist of lemon. Rated T for language, violence, and sexual situations. Jigen is © Monkey Punch, and is used without permission. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

-This story was inspired by the song 'Hello Nurse' (from the cartoon Animaniacs). Chances are, Mary-Sues bother you just as much as they bother me. If you thought chapters one and two were painful, then you'll really hate chapter three. Try not to hurt yourself when you slam your head onto your desk in disbelief while reading this selection.-

-Once again, this is a **PARODY**. Please bear this in mind before flaming me, 'k?-

* * *

The speakers, hidden behind the red-and-gold papered walls, fill the bar with selections from the Glenn Miller Band. Rayne blinks and turns to the man in the fedora. She didn't hear him approach the bar, didn't hear his question.

"What was that?" Rayne says. Her hand clenches nervously around her glass. The man in the fedora is looking straight at her, studying her beautiful, porcelain features. His eyes linger on the shock of white hair at her temple.

"I said, 'can I buy you a drink?'," he repeats. He snaps his calloused fingers at the bartender. James moves swiftly to the end of the bar to take the man's order.

"Double bourbon, straight, and a half-litre of your best wine." The man jerks his thumb at Rayne. "And one more of whatever the lady's drinking," he adds, grinning rakishly at her. Rayne finds herself blushing for what is probably the first time in ten years.

James frowns distastefully at the older man, but moves off to fill the order. He keeps an eye on the end of the bar, though. Rayne can sense his raging jealousy from where she sits.

The man with the fedora lifts the brim of his hat with one thumb, then leans his forearms against the padded edge of the bar. "You sounded good," he says casually, not looking at Rayne. Instead, he studies the gold appliqué that accents the mirrored back wall of the bar.

Rayne nods slowly. She can't keep her eyes off him. There is something intensely familiar about him. She can feel her heart pounding in her chest, and her fingers ache to touch this man in the expensive Italian suit. But she holds herself in check. He is obviously a friend of her mortal enemy; how could she possibly be attracted to him?

"Thank you," she says coolly. She finishes her drink and pushes the glass aside.

The man in the hat looks over at her. There is admiration in his dark brown eyes.

"I like that," he says. His voice is deep and gritty, obviously tainted by years of tobacco and alcohol abuse. Rayne finds it unbearably attractive.

She takes a slow, even breath, trying to keep herself from fawning over him like a schoolgirl. She errs on the side of indifference. Lifting her chin haughtily, she says, "You like what, exactly?"

The man chuckles and rubs his thick beard with one hand. "No apologies, no depreciation," he says. "Just 'thank you'. I like that." He turns and leans back against the bar. His gaze travels up and down her body, drinking in the sight of her, like a man who has been too long in the desert without water.

Rayne curls one lip. "It isn't often I garner such high praise from a gangster," she says, her voice tinged with a loathing that she does not truly feel. She tosses her long, silken hair and looks over at James, who is mixing her drink. The drink that this strange man has bought her. Rayne shivers, though with delight or fear, she cannot say.

The man in the hat stares at her for a moment. Slowly, he raises one corner of his mouth in a sardonic smile. "You've got some friggin' balls on you, don'tcha, sister?"

Rayne snorts softly. "I have more balls than most men I know," she snaps. She looks sharply at him. "And I'm not your sister."

Her companion grins wickedly, eyeing her again. "No, you're not," he says. There is a hint of respect in his voice. "Definitely not." He looks up as James comes near and sets a tray on the bar.

"Half-litre of house red, double bourbon, and a New York Sunset," James says tightly. He is obviously unimpressed by this fellow's efforts to ingratiate himself with Rayne. "Thirty-seven dollars."

The older man pulls a C-note from his jacket and tosses it casually on the bar. "Keep the change," he says, as though a sixty-three dollar tip were nothing more than pocket change.

James picks up the bill slowly, as though handling a bomb. "Anything else, sir?" he asks crisply, as the man with the hat turns back to Rayne.

"Yeah," the older man says, not even glancing at the bartender. "Get lost, kid."

Rayne's beautiful green eyes widen and she has to suppress a laugh. James' expression shifts from shocked to angry, and then settles on vengeful. He turns and stalks off as the man with the black fedora and the dark brown eyes hands Rayne her drink.

"For you, darlin'," he says, and Rayne feels herself drowning in those eyes, as he gazes at her with undisguised longing. She takes the glass and feels the shock of condensation on her fingers. She had not realised that her hands were so warm.

The man with the beard takes the half-litre of wine and the glass of bourbon, then turns to her again. He raises one eyebrow. "Hey, why don't you join us?" He jerks his head slightly in the direction of his booth. The one he shares with Antonio Scarpetti.

Rayne watches herself as if from a distance. She sees herself hesitate, as though considering the man's proposal. She feels strangely drawn to him, eager to know more about him, to discover why he seems so familiar to her. But the company he keeps is too much for her. She shakes her head.

"No, thank you," she says softly, reluctantly.

He looks at her for a long moment before shrugging eloquently. "Suit yourself, darlin'," he says, as he walks away.

Rayne watches him move. With his black suit and hat, and equally black hair, he blends in with the shadows, and she must strain to follow him with her gaze. He steps up to his table, into the faint pool of candlelight that illuminates the booth, and sets the half-litre carafe on the table in front of Scarpetti. The two exchange words, and Rayne sees them glance in her direction. She quickly turns her head, pretending to be fascinated by her drink. In truth, however, she can still see the men out of the corner of her eye.

Scarpetti rises from the booth and grins down at the man in the fedora. He makes some comment, and the bearded man shakes his head in reply. Halfway to the bar, an old man bumps into Scarpetti, apologises, then steps up to Rayne. He is a regular, a widower who has been coming to the Big Easy ever since his wife died of cancer last year.

"My beautiful Autumn Skye," the old man says, reaching for Rayne's hand and kissing it gently. His pale blue suit is worn, but neatly pressed; the brass buttons are polished to gleaming. "Will you favour me with a dance this evening?" He tilts his head to one side, his wrinkled face bright with hope. He asks her the same question every time he comes in, and Rayne always accepts.

"Of course, Professor Stanford," she says, her voice soft and lilting. She sounds like a goddess bestowing a benediction upon a supplicant. She sets aside her drink, knowing that James will not take it away before she finishes it. Rayne turns back to the professor and gives him her brightest smile. "Shall we?" she says, rising gracefully from her stool.

The old man takes Rayne's hand, and she brushes past Scarpetti without a second glance. The professor leads her to the dance floor, and for the next half hour, they lose themselves in the smooth movements of the Foxtrot, the sharp staccato of an Argentine Tango, the leisurely pace of a Slow Waltz. Rayne started dance lessons when she was ten, and until she met the professor, she had never found anyone worthy of her own impressive skill.

The old man plays Astaire to her Rogers. Together, they are poetry in motion. As they move around the dance floor, Rayne catches glimpses of the booth in the corner - red leather seats, scarlet tablecloth. The dark-haired man with the fedora is smoking endless cigarettes, and watching her with naked hunger. Antonio Scarpetti is watching her, too, his eyes narrowed in thought. Rayne idly wonders how much he remembers about that fateful day.

It is not until she catches sight of James, waving frantically at her, that Rayne realises that it is almost time for her next set. She and the professor finish their Foxtrot, and she curtsies to him, murmuring her apologies, and her appreciation. The old man walks her back to the bar and kisses her hand again.

"Always a pleasure, my dear," he says, as he says every time they finish dancing. His white hair fairly glows as the pot lights above the bar illuminate his worn and grateful features. Rayne impulsively leans forward and drops a light kiss on his wrinkled cheek. She smiles warmly as he walks back to his seat, then glances at the clock above the bar.

Two minutes. Rayne reaches for her drink and removes the plastic swizzle stick, laden with fruit. Orange, pineapple, cherry. She eats each piece slowly, sensually, knowing that the bearded man is watching her. She cannot resist teasing him this way. She knows he wants her.

She wants him just as much.

When the last piece of fruit is gone, she looks up, towards the booth in the corner. Her vision narrows, blocking out everyone and everything except the man with the black fedora and the haunting brown eyes. She was right: he _is _watching her. Rayne licks the brightly-coloured swizzle stick with long strokes, caressing it with her delicate pink tongue. She can see the bearded man tense where he sits. He clenches his jaw, and Rayne feels her insides turn liquid.

James interrupts her private show with a soft growl. Rayne tosses her hair and turns towards the piano, but not before sliding the swizzle stick, still slick with her saliva, into her cleavage. She will keep this, to remind herself of the man with the hat and the cigarettes and the sardonic grin. She doesn't expect she'll ever see him again, after tonight.

Rayne sits at the piano and loses herself in her music.


	4. Rayne Storm

-This is a work of fiction based on characters created by Monkey Punch (Kazuhiko Kato). It is an angst/drama **PARODY**, with a twist of lemon. Rated T for language, violence, and sexual situations. Jigen is © Monkey Punch, and is used without permission. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

-This story was inspired by the song 'Hello Nurse' (from the cartoon Animaniacs). Few people can stand a Mary-Sue, and I am no exception, which is why I simply had to write this parody. I have done my best to include every possible fanfiction cliché that ever existed, as well as write a brilliant, beautiful, and nauseatingly perfect character who is so unbelievable that she makes the Tooth Fairy look legit. If this story makes you scream in pain and reach for a bottle of codeine, then I'm on the right track. Thank you for suffering for my art.-

-Once again, this is a **PARODY**. Please bear this in mind before flaming me, 'k?-

* * *

Her set over, Rayne heads to the bar. The ice in her drink has melted, but she doesn't care. It still tastes sweet to her; even more so because of the man who paid for it. The plastic swizzle stick nestles quietly between her full breasts. She savours the sensation for a moment, then pulls it out and twists her hair around it, pinning up her dark tresses, exposing the pale skin of her delicate, slender neck.

James shoots dark looks in her direction, but Rayne ignores him. Instead, she peers through the smoky air at the booth in the corner, where the man with the fedora and Antonio Scarpetti are talking in low voices. When the men stop speaking and look over at her, Rayne blushes deeply and turns back to her drink.

Rayne's insides tighten like a piano wire. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Scarpetti rise from the booth and smooth back his oiled hair with one hand. He adjusts his cream-coloured suit jacket, brushes a speck of dust from his matching trousers, and makes his way over to the bar. This time, there is no kindly old professor to keep him from reaching his destination.

"Hey there, baby."

Scarpetti's voice drips with the sort of syrupy sweetness that Rayne imagines is supposed to be enticing. Instead, it grates on her nerves, for more reasons than one. She does not turn to look at him; she merely inclines her head faintly in acknowledgement. His cologne might be Drakkar Noir, but to Rayne, it smells like blood and death. It is with no small effort that she manages to keep her revulsion in check.

The big Italian man frowns. He seems put off by Rayne's response - or lack thereof. "My friend says that you've declined his invitation to come to our table," Scarpetti continues. "I thought it might be because we haven't been properly introduced." He holds out his hand, heavily-laden with gaudy rings. "Antonio Scarpetti."

The red velvet bar stool rotates smoothly as Rayne turns and glances up at Scarpetti's tanned and smiling face. Her expression is blank as she studies him. He looks exactly as she remembers: the smooth skin, piercing black eyes, broad shoulders, and towering height. Nothing has changed. Rayne lowers her gaze and regards his bejewelled fingers as though they were maggots, then curls her lip and turns away.

Nonplussed, Scarpetti drops his hand. He is not used to this sort of behaviour from women; most respond to him with fawning and adoration. He looks down at Rayne, narrows his eyes, and speaks his next words in his native tongue: "I guess your mamma never taught you any manners, little girl."

Her hand tightening on her glass, Rayne glances sharply over her shoulder at Scarpetti. Her scathing reply is delivered in perfect Italian. "Mention my mother again, you bastard, and I'll tear your throat out with my teeth," she snaps. Her green eyes darken to an angry purple, and she starts to tremble with rage. At the other end of the bar, James lifts his head. He doesn't speak Italian, but he knows that tone of voice.

Scarpetti, stunned, steps back. For a moment, he looks surprised, but surprise quickly turns to wrath. "Watch your tone with me, beautiful," he growls, clenching his fists. His many rings glitter in the dim light of the club. "I eat little girls like you for breakfast."

Rayne snorts softly and turns her back to him. She looks up at the ceiling with studied indifference. "Somehow," she says quietly, "that doesn't surprise me." The implication is obscenely clear, and Scarpetti catches it in full force.

He reaches out with a meaty hand, grabbing Rayne by the arm and yanking her around on her bar stool. "Don't you turn away from me, you little whore!" he shouts. Around the club, several people turn to look at him, shock clearly written on their faces. Rayne appears to be the only one who is unaffected by Scarpetti's outburst. "Do you know who I am?"

The force of his outburst jars the plastic skewer from Rayne's hair. It falls to the floor unheeded as her jet black hair spills over her creamy shoulders. She raises one slender eyebrow. "Do you think I care?" Rayne murmurs, as a faint smile lingers on her beautiful lips.

"I'm Anthony Scarpetti!" he roars, gripping her more tightly. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of her arm as his face contorts with fury.

Rayne grits her teeth against the pain, refusing to give this man the pleasure of knowing her discomfort. Instead, she glares up at him, her eyes flashing. "You say that as though it actually MEANS something," she hisses.

Before Scarpetti can formulate a reply, James appears at the end of the bar. He is casually drying a crystal wine glass. "Is there a problem here, Autumn?" he asks, raising one eyebrow. The question is innocent, but his voice is like steel.

Rayne slowly shakes her head. Her back is turned to James; he cannot see her face, but her tone is enough. "No," she says, without looking away from Scarpetti. Her tone is icy. "Mr Scarpetti was just leaving." Her gaze is withering.

Scarpetti snarls and drops her arm, then stalks back to his table. Rayne watches disinterestedly as the bearded man tries to calm his friend. Scarpetti refuses to be placated. Instead, he prepares to leave, moving towards the door with long, angry strides. When the man with the fedora gets up to follow, Scarpetti pushes him away and storms out of the club. The air seems lighter for his leaving.

"You all right?" James murmurs. He receives a terse nod in reply. Slowly he backs away, returning to his duties. He knows better than to talk to Rayne while she's in this sort of mood. He's been on the receiving end of her temper in the past.

The lean and hungry man in the expensive Italian suit rises from his seat and approaches Rayne. He sits on the stool beside her and snaps his fingers at James. "Double bourbon," he says, as the bartender approaches.

James complies, glowering intensely as he reaches for a fresh glass. The cut-crystal tumbler sparkles in the light from the bar. This interloper has no right to be disturbing Rayne right now. Still, James finds solace in the fact that Rayne is so angry, she will likely turn the older man away with a scathing retort. When he sets the double bourbon in front of the man with the hat, it is with a faintly triumphant smile.

There is a ten-dollar bill sitting on the bar; the bearded man pushes it towards James without speaking. James takes the bill and turns away, completing the silent transaction.

For a moment, the only sounds in the club are the hushed voices of the remaining patrons, and a canned, instrumental version of 'Sophisticated Lady'. The man with the fedora picks up his drink and sips it, then lifts the brim of his hat with one thumb and glances over at Rayne.

"I haven't seen him this angry in years." Rayne stiffens briefly as the man continues. "What the hell did you say to him?"

Rayne takes a deep breath and turns around on her stool. "Nothing," she says shortly. She leans her elbows on the edge of the bar, then takes a sip of her watery drink and wrinkles her nose.

The bearded man laughs softly. "Maybe that's the problem," he replies, focusing on his glass, rolling it between his hands. "He's used to getting his way."

Rayne is still shaking with rage and adrenaline. She stares into her glass, trying to push away the feelings that have welled up inside her. "He should know that you can't always get what you want," she snaps. Her voice trembles slightly.

"Yeah, well," says the man with the deep brown eyes. He looks over at Rayne. "Scarpetti never did learn that lesson." His voice trails off as he notices the expression on Rayne's face. It is one of pain, touched with anger. "Darlin'?" he murmurs, reaching out to her. His fingertips linger on her wrist, and she gasps softly. "You okay?"

Trembling a little more, on the verge of tears, Rayne takes a moment to answer. Her heart cries out for this man, this mysterious man from her mysterious past. But how can she think of falling in love when revenge is finally within her grasp? "I'm fine," she murmurs at last.

"The hell you are." Her companion turns to face her, concern etched into his features. He runs a finger lightly over the back of her hand, and Rayne has to bite her lip to keep from moaning. "What's wrong?"

Rayne shakes her head and takes a deep breath. "Not here," she whispers. She blinks, and a single, crystal tear rolls down her cheek. She smiles bravely at the man with the fedora. "I'm sorry."

The bearded man pulls a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his six-hundred dollar suit. He unfolds it with one sharp movement, the white silk glowing in the dim light. He reaches out to Rayne and gently dries her cheek, then hands her the handkerchief. His eyes remain focused on her face.

Rayne feels herself blushing as she takes the square of silk in her hands. There is a simple black 'J' embroidered in one corner. She holds it to her cheek for a moment, inhaling the scent of cologne and old cigarettes. Her eyes close briefly, and she wonders why this man seems so familiar to her. At last, she looks up at him and smiles quietly.

"Thank you, mister -?" She looks curiously at him as he chuckles softly and lowers the brim of his hat to hide his eyes.

"Jigen," he says. He leans forward to rest his forearms on the edge of the bar.

Rayne catches a glimpse of the Smith & Wesson holstered at his waist. She blinks at him. She knows him. She is certain of it. Her mind works furiously, combing through her past; still, the memory escapes her. But the smell of cigarettes, and the bourbon, and the fedora, and the gun -

Jigen is looking thoughtfully at her. "You have one more set tonight, yeah?" he says. The question is a mere formality.

Rayne nods, not trusting herself to speak. She dabs at her eyes with the handkerchief. When she tries to hand it back to him, he smiles and shakes his head.

"Keep it," he says, in that dark, gravely voice. The voice that makes her melt inside. The familiar voice. "And have dinner with me tonight," Jigen adds.

Rayne gasps softly, and stares at him. Her eyes widen in surprise and delight. "Really?" she murmurs.

Jigen nods. "Really." He lifts his hat slightly, allowing her to see his eyes. They are open, honest, and adoring. Rayne feels herself drowning in them.

"I- I don't know what to say." Rayne twists the handkerchief in her hands.

Jigen reaches out and rests one calloused hand on both of hers. His skin is warm, and Rayne's heart nearly leaps out of her chest. "Say 'yes'," he suggests - but it is not a suggestion, and Rayne knows it. She cannot resist him, and they are both aware of that fact.

"Yes," she says, looking deep into Jigen's dark brown eyes. She reaches out one hand, brushing her fingertips against his cheek, above the line of his beard. "Yes," she whispers again.


	5. Rayne of Fire

-This is a work of fiction based on characters created by Monkey Punch (Kazuhiko Kato). It is an angst/drama **PARODY**, with a twist of lemon. Rated T for language, violence, and sexual situations. Jigen is © Monkey Punch, and is used without permission. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

-This story was inspired by the song 'Hello Nurse' (from the cartoon Animaniacs). Rayne Anderson is the worst example of a Mary-Sue I could come up with, and I like to think I've been successful in my horrific quest. This chapter not only enforces her Mary-Sue'ness, but also completely butchers Jigen's canon personality and character. I know, I know: those aren't tears of joy you're crying, are they?-

-Once again, this is a **PARODY**. Please bear this in mind before flaming me, 'k?-

* * *

Her last set of the evening. Rayne plays like an automaton, a clockwork version of herself. All she can think about is Jigen: the delicate touch of his silk handkerchief against her cheek, the warmth of his hand on hers, the way his skin felt under her fingertips. Much of her set is spent imagining - imagining the feel of his mouth, his touch, his body next to hers. Her desire insinuates itself into her music and her singing: her voice is throaty and sensual, and she sings only to Jigen.

For his part, Jigen does not take his eyes off her. He watches her hands as they fly across the keyboard, watches her lips as they shape the words she sings. Her dark hair cascades over her bare shoulders like a wave of dark water - cool and inviting, but dangerous as well. For a brief moment, he wonders if he is ready to face the danger. Then the thought passes, and he knows what he must do. And why it must be done.

After taking her final bow, Rayne rushes to her dressing room to change. She emerges a few minutes later, dressed entirely in white. Her slacks and blazer are carefully tailored, and she has tucked her long, black hair under a white fedora. Standing there, waiting for Jigen to approach her, she looks like an angel.

He studies her for what seems like forever. He knows the hat. He knows the voice. He knows the girl. He wonders how much she remembers, and whether he should be glad that they've found each other again. He wants to tell her how much he's missed her, but instead, he asks her, "Where would you like to eat?"

Rayne smiles warmly at Jigen, and his heart tightens with longing. "There's a quaint little French place a few doors down," she says, linking arms with him as they leave the Big Easy.

Jigen adjusts his hat, lowering it over his eyes. "Will it be open this late?" he asks. There is doubt in his voice.

Rayne laughs, a beautiful, silvery laugh. "It doesn't matter," she says with a mischievous smile. She glances at him from out of the corner of her eye. "I know the owner," she explains. "He won't mind staying open for me." Rayne smiles shyly down at her shoes. "Besides," she murmurs, almost too low for Jigen to hear. "It means we'll have the restaurant to ourselves."

He likes the idea, and allows her to lead the way.

The owner of Chez François is a short, stocky Frenchman who greets Rayne as he would a prodigal daughter. The restaurant lights are low; most of the illumination comes from the thick, white pillar candles that grace every table. In the flickering light, the blue-and-silver decor seems more elegant, more intangibly beautiful than it might otherwise appear. As Rayne predicted, the restaurant is empty; there are no patrons, and most of the staff seems to have gone home. After shaking Jigen's hand and kissing Rayne on both cheeks, François leads them to a cozy booth and bustles off to the kitchen.

Jigen picks up the menu. It is written in French. He glances at Rayne, who has removed her hat and allowed her hair to settle loosely around her shoulders. She is watching him with a curious expression. He is about to speak when François returns with a bottle of Bollinger '57, and a warm loaf of crusty French bread.

"'ow can I be of service to you this evening, _cherie_?" he says, smiling broadly at Rayne. "You are wanting a little something after a long night at work, _non_?"

Rayne laughs lightly, and Jigen watches the two of them as they chatter away like old friends. François says something in French - an aphorism perhaps - and Rayne answers him in kind. Her accent is perfect and distinctive; she actually sounds as though she was raised in the south of France. Jigen lights a cigarette and smiles to himself as the words fly faster around him.

Finally, Rayne becomes conscious of the bearded man sitting beside her, smoking and waiting patiently. She blushes and picks up the menus, handing them to François with a pretty smile and a simple request. The owner bows deeply to her and turns away, heading to the kitchen to work his magic.

As Jigen pours two glasses of champagne, he chuckles softly. "You speak French?" he asks, setting the bottle back in the ice bucket.

Rayne nods as she takes her glass from him. "Mm-hm. I speak a few languages," she says idly. "Italian and Spanish, Japanese, German, and Russian. I even studied Latin in school." She laughs again. "But no one speaks that anymore." She smiles teasingly at Jigen, who whistles softly.

"Wow." He leans back in his seat, nearly blending in against the navy blue leather. "That's pretty impressive." He sips his champagne, savouring its perfection. The restaurant's cellar has proved its worth. Jigen wonders when he'll have the chance to return. _If _he'll have the chance.

Rayne blushes slightly. "I'm learning Mandarin right now," she says, digging in the slim white purse that sits on the seat beside her. "I carry a little travel book with me, to help me with the basic phrases. I'm not very good just yet." She seems unable to find the book. Instead, she pulls out a slim, credit card-sized screen and blinks in surprise. "I'd forgotten about this," she murmurs.

Jigen leans forward and tilts his hat back on his head. "What is it?" he asks. Rayne blushes again, giving it over reluctantly when he holds out his hand. Jigen turns the slender object over and runs his fingers over the tiny buttons at the back.

"It's a little project I've been working on since I was twelve," Rayne says. Jigen can hear the embarrassment in her voice. "It's a plasma television." She reaches out and presses one of the buttons. The little machine springs to life. "It has a built-in satellite receiver," Rayne continues. "You need headphones to listen to it, though." She blushes again. "I haven't got that part working, yet."

"Damn," Jigen mutters under his breath. He lifts his head and looks at Rayne, who is staring intently at the silver threadwork on the dark blue tablecloth. "You're friggin' brilliant," he says in awe, reaching forward to crush out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the table before him.

Rayne shakes her head vehemently. "No, no," she protests. "I just had an excellent education. My foster father..." She trails off. Crystal tears start to form in her beautiful green eyes. She pulls Jigen's handkerchief from her pocket and dabs at them.

Jigen sets the electronic wonder on the table and reaches out to rest his hand on Rayne's arm. "Hey," he says. "What's the matter?" He peers at her. One solitary tear slides slowly down her cheek. Jigen reaches out and touches it with a fingertip. "Tell me about it, beautiful."

Rayne hesitates. She hardly knows this man, and yet, she feels she _does _know him. In her heart of hearts, she knows that they've met before, shared something somewhere. She just can't remember when, or where, or what. Looking up at Jigen, she steels herself against the torrent of tears that threatens to burst forth. Swallowing thickly, Rayne dries her eyes one final time, then folds the handkerchief as she speaks.

"I- I don't know if I should," Rayne murmurs. Jigen is watching her intently, and she blushes slightly under his scrutiny. "It's such a long story," she says with a sigh. "I'm sure you're not interested in my prob-"

Jigen takes her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks. For a moment, Rayne wonders if he is going to chastise her. Instead, he leans in and presses his mouth to hers in a tender, lingering kiss. Rayne's heart nearly stops beating, and she melts inside. When Jigen finally pulls away, she can see herself in his expressive brown eyes. His feelings are written across his features with naked clarity.

"Autumn," he begins, but Rayne lifts a slender hand, pressing one finger to his lips.

"It's Rayne," she says softly. Speaking her own name - a name she has not revealed to anyone for nearly two years - makes her feel strangely free. "My name is Rayne."

Jigen does not seem surprised at her confession. He smiles gently at her and strokes her face as he pulls his hands away. There is an unspoken 'I know' in his gaze.

Before Rayne can question him, François emerges from the kitchen with a large, heavy tray, which he carries with surprising ease. He glides over to Rayne and Jigen, sets the tray on a nearby table, and takes from it two silver-edged, blue porcelain plates. He smiles as he places them before his very special customers.

Rayne murmurs a quiet 'merci', and François bows to her. "Is there anything else I can get for you, _cherie_?" he asks. When she smiles at him and shakes her head, he bows again. "_Alors_," he says, "_Bon appétit_." He moves unobtrusively away from the table, leaving Jigen and Rayne to their conversation.

"It's Coquilles St Jacques," Rayne says softly, as Jigen picks up his fork. "I hope you like it. François does amazing work in the kitchen." She smiles as her companion takes a taste of the starter and nods approvingly.

They eat in awkward silence, neither knowing what to say to the other. Rayne's mind is working overtime. Who is this man, and what does he already know of her? Is it safe to reveal her secrets to him? She has known him only a few hours, but something tells her that there is more to their relationship than a simple flirtation at a jazz club.

Jigen finishes his Coquilles St Jacques and sets his fork down. He sits back and watches Rayne as she eats. When her plate is clear, she looks up at him and tilts her head questioningly to one side. Jigen smiles faintly, clasping his fingers together and leaning his forearms on the edge of the table.

"Are you going to tell me what's bothering you, beautiful?" he asks. His voice is deep, warm and comforting. Rayne blushes slightly and pushes her plate away.

"I don't know if I should," she repeats, dabbing at her mouth with a dark blue cloth napkin. She drapes the square of cloth over her lap and stares down at it. "I mean, I hardly know you."

Jigen reaches out and lifts her chin with one finger. "You can trust me, Rayne," he says, gazing at her with tenderness. "I promise you that."

Hearing her name on his lips, all of Rayne's doubt disappears. She nods slowly as Jigen withdraws his hand. "It's a long story," she warns, but he merely chuckles and takes another sip of his Bollinger.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," Jigen insists. His gaze is intense, and Rayne finds that she must look away, or be consumed by it.

"My parents were murdered right before my eyes," Rayne begins bitterly. "My father was a lawyer, and one of his clients was ..._disappointed_ in the results at his trial. I was playing under the sofa when his men came to the house." She fiddles with her napkin. "Mother opened the door and took three bullets to the chest. Father came running when he heard the shots, but there was nothing he could do. Mother was already dead when the men shot my father in the face." Jigen takes a sharp breath, but Rayne ignores it and continues. "Foster care was the next step, of course. I was sent to live with a family in New Jersey. They had a seventeen year-old son. I was only eight," Rayne whispers. She closes her eyes, trying to shut out the details, but they press in on her. "Every day was a nightmare, and every night was torture." She looks embarrassed. "I think his parents knew, but they never said anything about it. All they did was beat me, and force me to work harder to earn my keep."

Rayne lifts her head defiantly. She stares, unflinching, at Jigen, whose gaze holds understanding and sympathy. "I ran away when I was nine. For two years, I lived on the street, on my own. I was my own mother, my own father. I raised myself as well as I could." She hesitates, falters. "And then I got sick. If Isaiah hadn't found me, I would have died."

Jigen lifts his hand, interrupting Rayne's monologue. She frowns at him, then notices François approaching their table with two fresh plates. The old man smiles brightly at them, clearing the table and setting two servings of Lièvre à la Royale before them. Rayne tries to offer François a cheerful look, but her eyes are touched with pain. The Frenchman's smile changes, becoming warm and gentle. He silently steps away from the table and returns to the kitchen.

Rayne picks up her fork and looks down at her meal. Her appetite has completely disappeared. As Jigen hesitates over his plate, Rayne shakes her head and gestures for him to eat. "Who's Isaiah?" he asks, before slicing into his serving of rabbit. The tender meat flakes apart at the first touch of his knife, and he takes a bite as his companion continues her tale.

"He was my foster father's hired man," Rayne explains. She picks up her champagne and finishes it, then reaches for the bottle and fills her glass. "But they were very close - more friends than employer and employee." Rayne smiles faintly, remembering. "Phillip Winchester was so very good to me. He gave me the best schooling, the best life - the best of everything." Rayne sighs deeply, running a fingertip around the rim of her glass. "But he couldn't give me back my parents. Please, don't misunderstand me," she protests, looking up at Jigen, who has raised one eyebrow and is looking sceptically at her. "He was everything to me. Everything he could be, after my parents died. I owe him my life."

Jigen nods slowly and returns to his meal. "And your parents' murderer?" he asks.

Rayne's expression tightens. "I never told Phillip what happened to them," she says. Her eyes darken to a stormy blue, nearly mirroring the restaurant's décor. "I loved him dearly, but I couldn't tell him about my life - about my parents, and my foster family, and what their son had done to me. He would never have understood." Rayne pulls out Jigen's silk handkerchief and dabs at her eyes again. "But Isaiah was my confidant in everything. He was an ex-CIA man, and he had seen so much. He knew how badly I needed revenge. He took me to the shooting range when I was just eleven, and taught me how to load and fire a gun."

Jigen puts down his fork and watches Rayne carefully, but she hardly notices, lost as she is in her tragic tale.

"Isaiah even gave me my first gun," Rayne says wistfully. "A Smith & Wesson. I still have it. I used it until I was fourteen." She sets her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands. Her eyes sparkle in the candlelight. "I'd skipped several grades in high school, so I was in the senior class that year. That's when I met Tommy Dillon. We were so in love - we decided to get married after commencement. We even got matching tattoos." Rayne wraps her arms around herself and shivers. "But he was killed in a hit-and-run that summer. When I heard that Tommy was dead, I wanted to die, too. I went to the shooting range one last time. But it turned out that it wasn't the last time, after all."

Jigen's eyes narrow slightly. This is the part he remembers. This is where their story begins.

"I was all alone there, except for a dark-haired man at the other end of the range. My gun jammed, and he offered to help me." Rayne closes her eyes and hugs herself more tightly. She seems to be remembering a happier time. "He was so kind, so handsome, so knowledgeable. He knew I was hurting. And he had a broken heart, too; I could tell." She opens her eyes, now green like the sea, and looks up at Jigen. "I don't remember what it was he said to me. I just knew I had to go back and see him again." She chuckles softly to herself. "I met him there every other day for three years. But one day, he just wasn't there anymore. I cried for weeks; he was my lifeline."

"And you were his," Jigen says, his voice husky with emotion. He leans back in his seat and lowers his hat over his eyes. "A broken heart is the hardest thing to cure, but you had the touch."

Rayne seems to suddenly realise who is sitting at the table next to her. She looks at Jigen with amazement. "I always had a bit of a crush on him," she says softly, "but it wasn't until a few months ago that I realised - I'd fallen in love, and I had no way to find him again."

Jigen pushes away his half-finished meal. "He thought you were pretty special too," he replies, lighting a wrinkled cigarette. "That's why he gave you the gun. That's why he spent so much time helping you, teaching you what your ex-CIA agent couldn't." Jigen tilts his head back and looks at her from under the brim of his hat. "You always were a good student. Even at sixteen, your quickdraw was -"

"Point-two seconds." Rayne blushes deeply. "You taught me well."

Jigen grins. "Heh. Outmatched by a teenager," he says wryly, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the delicate crystal ashtray. "I must be gettin' old."

Rayne smiles shyly at him. "I like older men," she says, her cheeks turning an even deeper red. "Especially older men with beards, who smell like whiskey and cigarettes."

Jigen laughs and reaches for her hand. Rayne takes it, her heart suffusing with warmth as he squeezes it, then brings it to his lips and kisses her fingers one by one. The next few moments are spent gazing into each others' eyes. They do not look away from each other until François approaches to whisk away their plates and offer them dessert.

Rayne smiles and nods at the Frenchman, who swiftly produces two pots of crème brûlée à l'orange. "François, you're a darling man," Rayne says, patting the back of his hand as he places a clean dessert spoon beside her ramekin. He blushes slightly and harrumphs, the way old men do when complimented by pretty girls. Rayne laughs lightly and blows him a kiss. His blush turns to a beaming smile, and he drifts away from the table again.

"Did you ever find him?" Jigen asks, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray. He picks up his spoon and dips it into his dessert. "The man who killed your parents?"

"I did," Rayne says slowly, tasting the brûlée. She looks over at Jigen and waits for him to swallow. "His name is Anthony Scarpetti."

Jigen drops his spoon with a clatter. His eyes darken and he clenches his jaw. "Goddamnit; I'll kill the friggin' bastard," he growls.

Rayne blinks at him, surprised at his vehemence. "You can't be serious," she says, putting down her spoon. "You work for him!"

"Not anymore," Jigen snarls. He pushes away his crème brûlée and reaches for Rayne's hand once more. "I've only been at his side for five years," he says, stroking her palm, "but you - you're my soulmate."

"Oh, Jigen!" Rayne's heart flutters like a bird trying to escape from its cage. She squeezes Jigen's hand and gazes at him adoringly. A single, perfect tear slides down her cheek.

"You're the most important thing, now," Jigen continues, looking deep into her stunning green eyes. "Nothing matters but you." He touches a rough finger to her tear, brushing it away, then pulls her towards him and kisses her cheek. Lifting her chin, he turns her face towards his and presses his lips to hers.

Rayne closes her eyes and drowns in his kiss. She slides her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair. She wants more of him. More than just a kiss.

Jigen pulls away and looks down at her. "This is a lousy place for this kind of ...discussion," he says wryly. Rayne chuckles throatily and nods in agreement. "Is there someplace we can go to talk?" Jigen asks.

"I have an estate just outside the city," Rayne says, reaching for her hat and purse. "We could go there."

"An estate?" Jigen echoes, looking curiously at her.

Rayne twists her hair and tucks it under her fedora. "Yes," she says softly. "My foster father left it to me when he ... passed away," she finishes reluctantly. She looks away, trying desperately not to cry again. There have been too many tears tonight.

Jigen stands and looks down at her with concern. "You've had a hard life, Rayne," he murmurs, offering her his hand. She glances up at him and smiles weakly. "But you've come a long way, beautiful," he adds, and Rayne's smile grows stronger.

"Thank you," she whispers, taking his hand and sliding out of the booth. Jigen helps her to her feet and pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her deeply. Rayne moans softly and reluctantly pulls away. "Let's hurry," she murmurs. Her eyes and voice are filled with longing.

Without a word, Jigen pulls a handful of cash from his pocket and drops three Benjamins on the table. Together, he and Rayne head for the door and exit into the dark night.


	6. Bitter Rayne

-This is a work of fiction based on characters created by Monkey Punch (Kazuhiko Kato). It is an angst/drama **PARODY**, with a twist of lemon. Rated T for language, violence, and sexual situations. Jigen is © Monkey Punch, and is used without permission. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

-This story was inspired by the song 'Hello Nurse' (from the cartoon Animaniacs). If you've been following along since the beginning, then I offer my congratulations. By now you've discovered that reading this story is like banging your head against a brick wall: it feels so _good_ when it stops. Thankfully, you've made it to the final chapter. I hope this has been as painful for you to read as it was for me to write. Feel free to use this work as an example of how _not_ to write an original character.-

-Once again, this is a **PARODY**. Please bear this in mind before flaming me, 'k?-

* * *

The night is cold, and a harsh wind is blowing. There is a soft 'pop', and streetlights start to go out all the way down the block. Rayne shivers, as though someone has walked over her grave. Jigen drapes his arm around her, and she smiles weakly.

There is a black car with tinted windows idling in an alley across from the restaurant; it slowly pulls out as the couple makes their way down the street. Rayne glances over her shoulder and realises that they are being followed. In front of them, twenty feet away, a thin man with short-cropped hair is leaning against the side of a building. Dressed all in black, he nearly blends in with the shadows. Jigen and Rayne stop abruptly.

"He's packing," Rayne murmurs, her lips barely moving. "Three guns." She eyes the man up and down, taking in every detail of his appearance. "Derringer in his hat, Browning in the shoulder holster, and a Walther strapped to his ankle."

Jigen raises an eyebrow, but otherwise makes no movement. "How do you know?" he asks.

Rayne touches a fingertip to her left cheek, just below her eye. "X-ray contact lens," she whispers, as the man approaches them. "I made two pairs for myself last year. They're not perfect, but they get the job done."

The dark man is in front of them now. He nods to Jigen, who stiffens. "Goin' for a stroll, huh?" the man says. He leers at Rayne, who closes her blazer more tightly around her. "I thought springtime was for lovers - not winter." A gun materialises in his hand, as though out of thin air.

Jigen moves to draw his own weapon, but the man points his Browning at Rayne. "Ah-ah," he said, and tsks, shaking his head at Jigen. "You don't wanna do that, Jigen. Wouldn't want your little sweetheart all full o' holes, wouldja?" He twists his face into a sneer. "Just keep those hands where I can see 'em, or the girl gets it."

Rayne's sea-green eyes widen, as much from fear as from the realisation that this man must work for Scarpetti. Jigen's next words confirm it.

"Still doing Scarpetti's dirty work, eh?" he says, pulling a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. After the darkness of the street, the flame is nearly blinding. "Thought you had the friggin' brains to go it on your own." Jigen snaps the lighter closed. The burning ember on the end of his cigarette illuminates his wicked grin. "Guess I was wrong."

The thin man snarls softly and lifts his gun to Rayne's head. Jigen's grin fades. "Keep it up, funny guy, and you'll see some brains, all right." The gun taps against Rayne's temple, and Jigen clenches his fists in frustration and impotence.

The black car glides up beside them, and the back door open as if by itself. "Get in," growls Scarpetti's man, and Jigen watches as Rayne silently obeys. "You too, funny guy," the dark man says. "But first -" He reaches out and takes Jigen's Magnum, then gestures towards the car with his own gun.

The inside of the car is spacious; the back seat boasts two benches, one facing the other. Jigen and Rayne sit together on one, and the man with the Browning and the ugly sneer sits across from them, his gun trained on them.

Silence dominates the trip. Rayne does not know where they are going, but Jigen has a fair idea. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His worry is not for himself - he has escaped from tighter nooses than this - but for Rayne. She looks so small and delicate, sitting next to him, her hat low over her emerald eyes.

For Rayne's part, she is neither worried, nor scared. Instead, she is thinking about how best to get the Browning away from the thin man or, failing that, how to get her Magnum out of her purse. She has been carrying the gun - a gift from the man seated next to her - for years, and for one purpose: to kill Anthony Scarpetti. Rayne clasps her hands together demurely, all the while burning with hate and a feeling of vengeance.

When the car stops, it is in front of a massive stone house, encircled by a wrought-iron fence. At the gate, the driver rolls down his window and speaks into an intercom. Rayne cannot hear exactly what is said, but the gates open, and the car makes its way down the long drive. They have finally reached their destination.

The dark man waits for the driver to open the back door, then silently gestures with his weapon. Rayne and Jigen step out of the car and look up at the house. It is difficult not to be impressed: it boasts stained glass, elegant scrollwork, and beautifully-carved doors, made from solid oak.

The doors open, unbidden. On the other side is a young girl - a maid of some sort, if her clothing is any indication. She has a black eye and a defeated look about her. Without a word, she seems to invite them to enter, and the trio steps into the high-ceilinged foyer.

At a slight nod from the maid, Jigen and Rayne are herded up the winding stairs and into a small, dark study. The walls are panelled in cherry-wood, and behind the enormous mahogany desk sits the man of the hour.

"Well, well," Scarpetti says, standing up and approaching the couple. He waves dismissively at the thin man, who hands over Jigen's Magnum and turns to go. Rayne catches his eye before he leaves the room; he wears a cold and pitiless expression.

"So good to have you with us again, Jigen," Scarpetti says, placing the Magnum on his desk. "And the lovely Autumn Skye." The words are sweet, but the tone is one of pure steel. "Or should I say, 'Rayne Anderson'?" Scarpetti finishes. There is a flash of gold as his huge, bejewelled hand makes contact with Rayne's cheek. "Little bitch!" he snaps, spitting at her feet. "Did you think you'd escape me?"

Rayne gasps and pales. The only colour in her face is Scarpetti's handprint, standing out in sharp contrast to the whiteness of her skin.

"Oh, yes," Scarpetti says, leaning back against his desk and folding his hands across his chest. "I know everything that goes on in this town; every person who enters it is under my scrutiny. Your pathetic attempt to play detective, to 'go undercover' -" he says it mockingly, and Rayne looks away "- could only last so long. You thought YOU were stalking ME." Scarpetti laughs sharply. "How very wrong you were, little girl.

"And you!" He turns to face his former employee. Jigen's hat covers his eyes, as usual, but the sardonic grin is only too visible. "I treated you like a brother! And this is how you repay me?" Jigen's demeanour seems to infuriate Scarpetti. "Wipe that fucking grin off your face, you piece of shit!" The man's coarse Italian complexion has grown even darker, in his fury.

Jigen ignores him. Instead, he reaches for the last cigarette in his pocket and lights it casually. The grin changes to a smirk as he blows smoke into Scarpetti's face. "Gonna make me?" Jigen asks, lifting the brim of his hat with the tip of his thumb. Rayne's eyes widen, her mind racing. He's pushing Scarpetti's limits, she thinks. He's pushing too hard.

Scarpetti explodes. "You're damned right I will!" he screams, grabbing Jigen's gun from the desk and pointing it at its owner. "I should have done this a long time ago," he snarls, cocking the hammer. "I'll see you in hell, you son of a bitch!"

The roar of the gun is nothing compared to Rayne's anguished scream. "No!" she cries, throwing herself in front of Jigen. Her purse lands on the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Her Magnum lands at Jigen's feet, and he reaches for it, putting a bullet through Scarpetti's chest before the man can get another shot off. The study doors burst open, and the thin man races into the room, only to be brought down by Jigen's fearsome skill.

For a moment, there is a heavy silence. Three bodies lie on the floor, their blood staining the elegant Persian carpet. Jigen reaches for Rayne, turning her over and cradling her in his arms. Her white clothes, the clothes that made her look so much like an angel, are now soaked with arterial blood. Jigen knows that she will not survive.

Rayne smiles up at him with pale lips. "We were so close," she says softly. Jigen has to strain to hear her. "I'm sorry it had to end this way." She, too, seems to know her own fate.

Jigen shakes his head and runs his fingers through her ebony hair. "You'll make it," he lies. There is the sound of sirens in the distance. "Just hold on a little longer." He leans down and kisses her smooth forehead.

Rayne's voice is now no more than a whisper. "It's all right," she says. Her eyes are no longer green, but grey, like the sky during a storm. "My parents are at peace." She smiles up at Jigen. The sirens are growing louder now, but they will be too late. "And I found him again - my lost love. My soulmate." She reaches up to touch his face, but cannot find the strength. Rayne coughs. A stream of blood flies from her mouth, staining Jigen's cheek with its crimson kiss. The light in her eyes goes out forever.

Jigen crushes her to his chest, his white shirt made scarlet by her blood. His shoulders shake with the force of his anger, his regret, his sorrow. Lifting Rayne's body, now light as a feather, Jigen carries her out of the house as police cars and paramedics surround the estate.


	7. After the Rayne, 'Hello Nurse'

-By popular request, the lyrics to 'Hello Nurse' (The Animaniacs, episode H5). Lyrics (and music) are © Randy Rogel and are used without permission.-

* * *

She's the woman of the year  
Independent, a career  
There's not a thing that she couldn't do.  
Oh, she's alert, she's aware  
She's got legs like Astaire  
And a hundred-fifty-seven IQ.

She has several PhDs  
Speaks fluent Japanese  
And her shoes will always match with her purse.  
Whatever street she's walking down  
Everybody turns around  
And says...  
..._Helloooo Nurse!_

She likes cheese and pepperoni  
Won a Pulitzer and a Tony  
She played the leading role in King Lear.  
She never drinks, she never smokes  
She never laughs at dirty jokes  
She was ambassador to China last year.

Oh, she's politically correct  
She'd never call collect  
She plays Chopin and she doesn't rehearse.  
And when she's walking by  
I give a little sigh  
And shout...  
..._Helloooo Nurse!_

She gets her math equations right  
She reads Tolstoy every night  
She won the Nobel Prize in physics, it's true.  
She drives a shiny new Corvette  
Sings opera at the Met  
And volunteers her time at the zoo.

Oh, she won a scholarship to Yale  
Got a Fulbright in the mail  
And took a two-year junior college degree.  
She's manna sent from heaven  
Too bad I'm only seven, 'cos  
Hello Nurse, I wish you'd take care of me!

If she's not everything that we've said  
Then may lightning strike us dead  
(rumble, zap!)  
_Helloooo Nurse!_


End file.
